Carson
Carson surveyed the plaza, now eerily quiet. A handful of burning vehicles, still a few
scattered bodies. Cleanup could wait. He looked at the entrance to the
administration building, where a small squad of Stormwalkers stood guard. A cordon a hundred or so
yards out prevented any approach to the building from any other direction.
Or anyone leaving. Somewhere up there, if intelligence was reliable,
was a man who wanted most desperately to get out. And the intel boys hadn't failed him yet.
He's in there. But who's in there with him?
Vincent Kraft wasn't the type to command personal loyalty. Whoever was in there
would be interested only in personal survival. All had signed up for the money.
Brian Harris and Roland Stanley were behind him, awaiting orders. They
were here for a cause, as were the men going in with him. He turned.
"Ready when you are, chief," Harris said.
Stanley nodded. He was a man of fewer words than anyone Carson had ever known.
Both were holding tridents, Harris had two. One for him.
The tridents had evolved from the pitchforks of the early days of the war. Then
they were ordinary pitchforks, and accompanied by improvised torches in the demonstrations that
often turned into riots. More than one unlucky servant of the regime had been perforated with
them. As they became a trademark of the revolution the weapons suppliers had begun making the
tridents to replace them. And mass-produced torches.
Months ago Kraft had ridiculed the pitchfork-wielding rebels,
in a scripted interview sitting in a television studio safely back in DC. He hadn't left the safety of the
administration complex in weeks, and hadn't been seen since the city had been surrounded. Several
regime officials who hadn't gotten out had since been rounded up and paraded in handcuffs into vans
but Kraft was left for Carson.
Carson wondered if he knew. He hoped he knew. Perhaps he should leave him there a
while.
No, it's time. Time to pay up, his worthless life for hundreds, thousands really, is hardly a fair
trade but it's all I've got. Guys, I'll probably be seein' you soon enough, but this particular
piece of vermin won't live to see it.
Unless one of those clowns in there gets lucky.
He extended his hand and Harris handed him the trident. He wrapped his hands around
the steel shaft and moved it to port arms. The head was fashioned like that on depictions of
Neptune's, the nine-inch prongs on the sides curved slightly outward, the straight center one was
an inch and a half longer.
"Let's go," he said.
The door squad parted as they approached.
"We secured the ground floor," the commander said. "All of blue squad is in there,
waiting for orders."
Hawkins, James. Sergeant First Class. One each. He'd commanded red squad the whole
time. Good man.
There aren't any that aren't good.
"Who's in charge in there?" Carson asked. "Mitchell?"
"Yes, sir."
"Tell him we're coming in."
Hawkins keyed the mike on his radio.
"Boss is here, ready to go."
"I see him," Mitchell replied. "We're ready."
Two of the squad opened the doors and Carson and his men entered.
He recognized SFC Mitchell, standing with a handful of men by the elevators.
"Let's to it," Carson said. "Clear the floors one at a time. We'll stay back out
of your way. He's most likely holed up in his office, but if you run into him somewhere else do what
you have to do. Take him alive only if there's no risk to our men."
"Yes, sir."
Mitchell motioned to one of the two groups of about twenty men and they turned and
jogged toward the other end of the lobby.
"West stairs," Mitchell said. "Let's go."
Mitchell led another two dozen men up the east stairs. Four men stood with their
SR-9 10mm submachineguns trained on the elevator.
Exiting the stairwells on either side of the building the men methodically cleared
the floor. A total of eleven frightened men and women of various ages were rounded up and herded
into a large room. The large table in the center had more than enough seats, and Michell ordered
them to sit. Leaving two men to guard them they took the next floor. Another nine prisoners were
secured and left under guard. The top floor proved deserted outside of the office suite occupied
by Kraft.
"He can't have many people in there," Carson said. "But they may be be the most dangerous."
"Blow the doors and heave in a couple of MS-32s?" asked Mitchell.
"Yeah," Carson replied. "Stay sharp now."
The demo men backed away as far away from the doors as they could and leveled their
BRGs, looked at Mitchell. Mitchell surveyed the scene, looked at Carson. Carson nodded.
Each man fired five rounds into the doors, almost completely clearing the door way. Immediately after
the last shots two more men hurled the MS-32s through the doors and retreated from the doorway.
Two explosions shook the floor and the shockwave spilled out into the corridor. As the smoke cleared
he charged in, followed by Harris and Stanley. Several men were getting back on their feet, a few
attempting to bring their weapons to bear, others trying to find them. Others weren't moving at all.
Holding his trident like a quarterstaff he knocked down the one facing him and
continued towards a door, hanging on one hinge. He kicked it down and went through. A half-dozen
more men crowded in behind him, the laser gunsights criss-crossing the room.
Only three people were in the room. Kraft stood near the back, in front of the
window. Two men in black BDUs had APC9s leveled at them but did not fire.
Carson grounded his trident, grasping the shaft at chest height. Harris and Stanley
did the same. The men in black maintained their stance.
"It's over," said Carson. "What do you plan do do with the rest of your lives? If
you want it to be more than a couple of minutes you'll drop you weapons now."
A dozen more men had entered, a dozen more guns. The men in black didn't
hesitate, the guns clattered to the floor.
Carson watched Kraft, neither speaking. For a man with so many words to say he
didn't seem to have any now.
Does he know what's coming? Of course he doesn't. They expect to never have to
pay.
Carson dropped his right hand to just south of the center of the shaft of the
trident, grabbed it a little higher with the right, pointing at Kraft's chest. The fear in his
eyes became a different kind. The kind when you know you're about to die.
It was time to end it. Sickeningly evil as Kraft was, tormenting him for a few more
moments would be pointless.
For every injustice there is somewhere a final justice.
He charged across the few yards separating them, the trident aimed at Kraft's
sternum, the tines sinking in to the crossbar. As they always did. He continued moving, lifting
the impaled body clear of the floor, slamming it back against the window.
Holding it there, for the benefit of the cameras. If they were still running - he didn't really
care. There were certainly some outside.
Those pics should be interesting.
He stepped back, letting the body fall, pulling the trident clear. Lying flat on
his back, Kraft was moaning. No other sound, no movement. Just that droning moan. Blood pooled
around his upper body.
The moaning ended and the body was still. The men gathered around and looked at the slain monster.
Harris took out a phone and snapped a few pictures. Those would be all over the country in a couple
of hours, whatever faction the areas were occupied by.
News from regime territory should be fun to watch.
The men in black had put their hands down, carefully, and were watching. No doubt pondering their
likely fate.
"Get these guys to detention," Carson said. "Leonardo knows what to do with them."
It was unlikely they knew much of value but one never knew. Bodyguards saw and heard things. Kraft
was no longer relevant but who he talked with and what he said could be useful. The two were cuffed
and led away.
Then need not fear. For them the war was over and the rebel prisons were pretty comfortable compared
to what the situation in regime prisons was.
Carson looked down at the body again.
People like him make killers out of normal people. The people they brainwash and the ones who have
to kill to defend themselves from the killers they created. People who just wanted to be left alone have
to learn to kill without hesitation or remorse.
"Get the disposal squad up here," he said. "I'll let Central know we've got a present for them."
Probably the word was on its way there, the grapevine worked fast. He fished the phone out of a pocket
and tapped Leon's number.
"Hey chief," he said when Leon answered. "Got some presents for you. The hyena is coming in a bag
and a couple of bodyguards need reservations at the dungeon."
None of them were into small talk - Leonardo thanked him and disconnected.
He looked down at the bloody prongs of his trident, no longer dripping. He handed it to Harris.
"Leave it that way," he said. "Maybe it'll end up in a museum."
There was no need to replace it. He had carried it in a few other operations, for the dramatic effect.
The irregular units that carried pitchforks had some rudimentary training and a few regulars mixed in
to improve their effectiveness. Scared the hell out of the enemy when a bunch of them showed up.
People were often more unnerved by edged weapons than firearms, he reflected. And pitchforks...
| BRG | : | door breaching gun |
| BDS | : | Bureau of Domestic Security |
| SR-9 | : | submachinegun used by the rebel states |
| Roland Stanley | : | one of Carson's lieutenants |
| Stormwalkers | : | special forces unit of the rebel states |
| Vincent Kraft | : | head of BDS K section |
| APC9 | : | Swiss submachinegun used by the regime |
| BDUs | : | combat uniforms |
| Carson Stuart | : | commander of |
| Brian Harris | : | one of Carson's lieutenants |
| SFC James Hawkins | : | Red squad commander |
| BDS K Section | : | BDS black operations unit |
| SFC Mitchell | : | Blue squad leader |
| MS-32s | : | aread clearing charges |
| Neptune | : | Roman deity |
| Sergeant | : | enlisted rank |
| SFC | : | Sergeant First Class |
| Leonardo | : | intelligence officer in Nelson's unit |
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